


remember rome

by captaincastello



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Body Worship, Frottage, Grinding, Kissing, M/M, Memories, Slow Dancing, Summer Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 16:26:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12536064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincastello/pseuds/captaincastello
Summary: Mid-1980's -- inside this room, this other world which seemed to dispel the very idea of the outside world itself, something was also being rekindled, aroused, and ended.(or, a tiny CMBYN AU sheith)





	remember rome

**Author's Note:**

> greatly inspired by Andre Aciman’s ‘Call Me by Your Name’ which will forever hold a place in my bookshelf and in my heart

Chopin’s Prelude no. 15 “Raindrops” was playing on the vintage gramophone then, when Keith suddenly stood and pulled him up from where they’d been lying down fully clothed on the bed, wordlessly holding each other’s gaze as their fingers and thumbs gingerly traced patterns all over the other’s forehand and knuckles.

“Dance with me,” he simply said, and in the bright crimson brilliance of the sunset penetrating their hotel room through the large French windows they deliberately left open, his skin his eyes his entire being seemed to glow anew, and in that moment, Shiro thought that he wasn’t the 17-year old kid who had kissed him dry and messy back in the thick overgrowth of trees at the back of the summer house in Italy, but instead he’s seeing him for who he was, which was another soul just like him, a soul that aeons ago might have been an essential part of his and yet he had lost, and yet the seemingly endless search for the other over countless generations had only intensified the proportional sweetness and electricity of their reunion. Outside, night was slowly consuming Rome, but instead of putting her to a deep sleep was awakening her every hidden crevice; inside this room, this other world which seemed to dispel the very idea of the outside world itself, something was also being rekindled, aroused, and ended.

Shiro wanted nothing more than to pull him close and kiss him, to simultaneously worship and defile his body and have his own adored in kind as they did in their clandestine trysts in various locations all across Keith’s hometown where they first met, where they first fell in love, where they first thrust themselves deeper and deeper into the a dark chasm they consciously built with their own hands nails and teeth, all the while knowing that each touch, each kiss, each scratch, each bite will never leave enough marks on their bodies to provide them comfort in the lonely lives they will each have to carry separately once the sun returned to the skies come next morning.

And yet if Keith only wanted to dance, then Shiro would want nothing more than to indulge him, spoil him, give everything he wanted to him.

“But,” Keith continued, his voice quiet and somber, almost as if he was sad, incredibly sad, because he knew there would be no replication of this night or any version close to it after this. “Take your clothes off.”

Whatever Keith wanted, needed, craved, if it was within his power to give or to do so and to do so immediately, Shiro would drop everything else and placate his every desire his every hunger his every wish.

The first to go were his cognac oxfords, followed by his black wool socks. Then, his jacket, his baby pink shirt, each button a countdown to his half-nakedness, then his neatly pressed tan slacks, the zipper making a slow hiss as it descended, until the only protection he had against the incoming night chill was his own skin, save for the soft fabric of his grey boxers that he always saved for Keith to undo, to clasp, to rip, to do whatever the hell he pleased to do with it on him.

In front of him, Keith stood in the full glory of his Mediterranean-kissed skin, denim jacket and jeans and Normandie tank discarded along with his boxers and closed-footed espadrilles to a pile beside his feet. Shiro always loved looking at his ankles, the beautiful smooth curve of bone connecting to the calloused soles of his feet, spreading to the toes which he had kissed and sucked so lavishly multiple times during their short time together.

Contrary to the ravenous and impatient tempo that usually led the coupling of their mouths tongues fingers legs and groins that mimicked the building anxiety and thoughtless haste of a student desperately fumbling for answers before the exam time expired, this time, both held an unspoken promise to savor each second, each minute, each hour until dawn, to pour out every ounce of their passion and affection in large yet evened doses so as nothing is wasted nor withdrawn from the other, just as they did when they made love on the smooth boulders by the bay after the first real honest exchange they had about their innermost feelings regarding the other.

Keith’s eyes alone beckoned Shiro closer, before he had even extended a hand to tuck his index finger into the waistband of Shiro’s boxers and gently pulled him close. Their eyes were both shut when they softly collide; Keith’s warm sigh against Shiro’s bare neck, chest against pounding chest, palms and fingers upon shoulders and hips, the only foreign yet not unpleasant sensation being the fabric that successfully kept friction but not heat at bay.

Neither dared to open their eyes, both choosing to see instead with their skin, to listen to the language of their breathing, to taste each scent emanating from the other’s body, to feel each gasp each shudder each unspoken confession inked with every touch. Keith tilted his head back, Shiro replied by dipping his head low just enough for their foreheads to touch, their noses and lips and the tips of their eyelashes teasing each other like raging waves and a shoreline, always briefly meeting yet never staying too long. Hands traveled along ridges of hard muscle and summer-doused skin, gently, fiercely, starving, resisting, wanting, denying, grasping, pushing.

They swayed not exactly to the rise and falls of Chopin, but rather to their own unpracticed yet harmonious rhythm, to the synchronized and growing cadence reverberating within their ribcages, the resounding singularity of their minds, the melding of their souls like two metals except they had exposed themselves to a massive fire that they created on their own.

Keith’s name was a solemn mantra on Shiro’s lips, a single syllable that dared to make its way through the lump in his throat, a sound that kept on fighting against his loss of breath because what was air for if not to breathe out his name.

When they finally dive into each other, Keith’s lips were sweet ambrosia on Shiro’s own, addictive and intoxicating like a first shot of vodka, liberating even as they entrap Shiro where he stood. Keith swallowed every sigh, every gasp that dared escape Shiro, and Shiro responded in kind, bathing Keith’s tongue with his spit as his fingers traveled the distance from a trim waist to get lost in the rich softness of Keith’s dark hair. Suddenly the room felt warm, the night breeze a feeble threat against the warmth generated by their bodies.

When they parted, Shiro was till caught in the haze Keith had put him in and half-cursed the human need for air, but was easily sobered when he opened his eyes and saw the work he had done, the swollen wet parted lips painted by his own, trembling from contact and yet hungry still.

After admiring his own work on Shiro, Keith dived in again, his appetite unabated, but now he held back his tongue to leave chaste lover’s kisses, ushering a shudder and a barely contained moan from Shiro as he dived lower, venerating his exposed neck chest and torso, tenderly remarking already marked territory with his lips. He was down on his knees when he paused to look up and meet Shiro’s heavy half-lidded gaze, a small plea for permission on his own eyes even as he knew Shiro would definitely give consent, would absolutely let him pleasure or torment him as he pleased, a privilege he alone had been granted. Slowly, wordlessly, Keith pulled down the only piece of clothing off of Shiro, releasing his semi-engorgement from its dampened cotton confinement, a single almost invisible thread of Shiro’s essence stretching and breaking off once the boxers land on the floor.

Keith leaned in and planted a soft kiss above Shiro’s right thigh, his cheek lightly brushing where Shiro was so painfully sensitive as he made his way even further down to the top of his knees, before going back up to retrace where his mouth had been all over his map of all things he loved, of all things that was Shiro in all his naked vulnerable and exposed glory.

Shiro greeted him back with a kiss to his cheek, tasted the bit of himself that had rubbed on Keith’s face, collected it on his tongue before putting it back in Keith’s mouth, tasting him, tasting himself, tasting him taste himself as they wound their arms tighter around the other, warmth against warmth feeding into the heat, friction threatening to set the entire room ablaze.

Keith’s scent taste heat, Keith’s everything was intoxicating, and incited a desire so powerful and consistent since the first time Shiro laid eyes on him when he had asked to talk to his father about the broken shower in his room. Little did he know by then that Keith’s heart and body sang the same song as his did, that something had long been brewing under their noses despite how much they tried to suppress it. Shiro thought back on all the time wasted, all the days spent yearning for, anticipating, avoiding gazes and getting caught gazing, all those carefully worded conversations, the curt replies meant to put off or draw the other in, that game of denial and seduction they both lost to anyway when they got lost in each other, when all the cards were down and they left themselves transparent for the other to see.

Their entire summer flashed before Shiro’s eyes as Keith gently pushed him back down on the bed, laying him down on the sheets without ever releasing him from his hot wet kiss. Shiro moaned loudly back into his mouth, his hands busy rubbing all across the smoothness of Keith’s back, as he eagerly rolled and pushed his hips upwards in tune with Keith’s opposing pressure, heat pooling and dripping in small rivulets where they’re feverishly grinding against the other. Their dance grew hurried, impatient, as electrified passion and beastly hunger turned gasps into loud uninhibited moans, turned impish nibbling into ravenous biting, sensual rubbing and groping into desperate clawing. Then a tremor shot up Shiro’s spine and he arched his head back, his legs automatically folding around Keith’s midsection to keep him in place as he rubbed him raw, his toes curling inward as he felt Keith shudder and growl deeply into his ear as warmth spilled onto their bellies, painting their bodies once more with their desire yet still leaving them both starved for more, more of him, more of what they can’t have anymore come morning.

Come tomorrow, he would be a young marine leaving for his first assignment.

Tomorrow, he would be the quiet guesthouse owner’s teenage son.

Whenever Shiro looked back on this night, he’d remember the way Keith breathed his name as he lifted his knees over his shoulder. He’d remember Keith’s feverish kisses, how he had loved him eagerly with every bite, every scratch, every thrust. He’d remember wanting to keep Keith’s seed inside him even when it overflowed and stained the pristine white sheets under him. He’d remember Keith’s lips tongue palms fingers all over his body, and the taste of Keith’s mouth skin sweat and seed forever imprinted on him. He’d remember Keith’s soft smile, his bright laughter, his tender touch that always felt like home.

Whenever he’d look up at the sky, be it a clear blue or a gloomy grey littered with smoke and burning birds, he’d think of the calming horizon that greeted him every morning from his room in Italy.

Whenever he’d close his eyes, he’d think of Rome.


End file.
